


LR01-The Summer of '78

by VStarTraveler



Series: VST's The Lone Ranger Collection [1]
Category: Green Hornet (TV), Green Hornet - All Media Types, The Lone Ranger (TV 1949), The Lone Ranger - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 07:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14232159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VStarTraveler/pseuds/VStarTraveler
Summary: While cleaning out the attic following the death of his mother, a man discovers a packet of documents that reveals his late father's long-hidden secret from a summer long ago.  This is a follow-up to the Lone Ranger Season 4:11 episode entitled "Dan Reid's Fight for Life."





	1. The Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction, written entirely for fun and not for profit, which is meant to fit into the 1940s-1950s version of The Lone Ranger TV show, starring Clayton Moore as our masked hero and Jay Silverheels as his trusty companion. This interpretation of that particular version of The Lone Ranger, and any other properties that may be mentioned, is entirely my own, and The Lone Ranger, all of its various components, and any other works remain the property of their respective owners.
> 
> Author's Note: I originally wrote chapter 1 for the WA Alternate Format Challenge, where most of the story had to be told through letters, e-mails, signs, newspaper articles, et cetera. This will vary somewhat in later chapters. For now, three chapters are planned in the first arc, but other arcs may be added as time passes and circumstances allow.

**The Daily Sentinel, page 1, above the fold, March 5th edition:**

...spent her later years following her husband's passing as one of the city's leading philanthropists. In addition to several nieces and nephews, she is survived by her son Britt, current owner and publisher of this newspaper, his wife Lenore (Case), grandson Britt, Jr., and granddaughter Diana. Services will be held at…

~LR~

**Last Will and Testament:**

...Finally, I leave to my son Britt my home and all other worldly possessions not heretofore dispensed in this will.

~LR~

**Later that summer, sign in front of a largish bungalow on a quiet street in the city's Belle Isle district:**

Grifford Realty

HOME FOR SALE

2,900 SF—Immaculate!  
For more information, call

Robert Grifford  
555-7942

~LR~

**Phone message in very neat handwriting dated Tuesday, October 2nd:**

From: Bob Grifford

Message: Closing next Thursday, 10/11. Everything OUT of the attic! PLEASE! Will call Mon. w/ more details.

A second note in his secretary's hurriedly-scrawled handwriting added: This is the third time Mr. Grifford has called. You can't keep avoiding him or this. I'm putting him through if he calls again!

~LR~

**Saturday, 10/6, 9:07 AM:**

Swaying gently in the cool wind, the Grifford Realty sign had an "UNDER CONTRACT" placard hanging under it on a pair of hooks when the black car pulled into the driveway.

The man got out of the car and gathered several empty boxes from the back seat. Walking up the steps to the wrap-around porch, Britt Reid opened the front door of the house with his key and then proceeded up the stairs to the attic to finish cutting the final connection with his childhood.

~LR~

**10:49 AM:**

Five boxes marked "Trash" were stacked by the curb. Britt placed a second box marked "Donate" in the trunk of the car first along with a single box marked "Keep." Then he went up the steps and back inside to look in one last box he'd found tucked away in the very back corner of the attic.

~LR~

**Very old box marked "Dan's College Papers":**

The box was heavy, filled to the brim with papers. A quick glance revealed that most were old and faded almost to the point of illegibility. Britt was about to toss the entire thing but while digging down at one end of the box, he stopped when his hand touched something unexpected near the bottom. Somewhat frustrated at the discovery, he shifted the stack to free the item. Pulling it out, he saw a leather pouch bound with a rawhide thong; it looked strangely rustic in comparison to everything else he'd seen that morning.

The thong broke in a puff of dust as he tried to untie it. Opening the flap, he found an oilskin-wrapped packet tied with a second cord. He cut this one and unfolded the old cloth to find a leather-bound book that seemed to bulge at the center. Turning it, he saw there were papers of various sizes tucked inside. He carefully opened the book and just inside the front cover found a yellowed envelope addressed to:

Master Dan Reid, Jr.  
Harvard College General Delivery  
Cambridge, Massachusetts

~LR~

**Letter dated April 9, 1878:**

_My dear nephew,_

_It was with great delight that I received your reply of February 27 of this year. Congratulations on being accepted into the law school; I understand why you decided to wait to choose whether law was really your ultimate profession. Hopefully the experiences you've gained in your years at our alma mater have led you through and past the doubts you expressed in our campfire discussions over the years. I wish only the best for you in whatever profession you ultimately follow._

_Your understanding of my situation and reasoning on not being able to provide a letter of endorsement for your application is greatly appreciated. With your outstanding underclass achievements, I hardly felt such an endorsement by my hand would have been very helpful anyway, but considering your law school admission essay, Professor Rotier or one of the other members from the Committee might possibly have remembered me from our very lively classroom debates. This could potentially endanger the good works that we are attempting to accomplish..._

As far as Britt knew, his father had only one uncle, John. From a couple of trips to the elderly man's home in Texas during his childhood, Britt's Great Uncle John had been a lawman before becoming a local judge, which seemed to be appropriate for what the letter said. He read through several more paragraphs discussing personal issues when he read this:

_...very glad that you will be able to join us again this summer during your break prior to matriculating in the fall. The past six summers you have spent with us have been among the most rewarding since we started our efforts; to see your progress at these stages as I have done would thrill your father and mother as well as your Grandma Frisby if they still survived. Jim B. has made a recent deposit to your account (see enclosed receipt) so you will have adequate funds to arrange your travels as well as covering your fees for the coming school year and beyond. We will meet you on Wednesday, June 12th at the_

Britt turned the page but saw the remainder of the letter appeared to be missing.

He knew his father had graduated from Harvard with a law degree before getting the urge to first become a corresponding reporter and later found his own very successful newspaper that Britt had run for the past twenty years. Father had always wanted to right wrongs and shine a cleansing light on the dark dealings of corrupt politicians and criminals.

He carefully refolded the paper, put it back in the envelope, and restored it to its original position before turning to the first page of the book.

~LR~

**Monday, 10 June 1878:**

Based on my trips from the Boston station by various routes through the north and into the west over the past few years, it appears that train travel is now much more convenient and efficient. Uncle J. always says to be prepared for anything, leaving a couple of extra days built into the schedule when traveling for the inevitable breakdown or track washout or bridge collapse. I laugh when he mentions that last one since only he would even consider that as a real possibility.

However, T. always says that Uncle J. always thinks of everything and that's why he's so successful at what he does. I've seen it, too; when we sometimes play chess during our evenings around the campfire, he's always thinking so many moves ahead. When one has to go up against some of the worst elements in the West, his forethought is often the only thing that keeps him alive.

**Tuesday, 11 June 1878:**

Just as I suspected yesterday, the railroad actually kept the schedule and I've arrived in Corbin, Texas, a full day ahead of our planned meeting date. Victor was so glad when I walked him down that ramp from the livestock car. I'm in my room in the hotel now dropping things off before I take him on the ride I promised. He needs the exercise after the past few days of traveling, as well as a second apple. We're going to take a good ride a short distance out of town but avoid the spot where we're to meet Uncle J. and T. tomorrow since he's always told me not to telegraph my upcoming moves to anyone who may be watching. Doing so might endanger not only me, but also him and his work.

I'm going to visit the general store this afternoon and pick up some supplies that I suspect they'll greatly appreciate. I'm looking forward to seeing what Uncle J. and T are working on now and hope that I'll be able to really contribute this summer. I've kept up my physical regimen, and Victor's, as well as my regular practice with all the many tricks Uncle J. has taught me. I'm looking forward to showing him my new Colt .45 Army, too. It's not fancy like his, though I did choose the stag horn stock option. I've been practicing with it all winter and spring so I hope he thinks I'm good enough. Really, though, I hope I don't have to use it.

~LR~

Britt paused. _Colt Single Action Army, .45 caliber, commonly known as the Peacemaker. Extremely effective weapon in the right hands. Dad carried one?_ He had mentioned being in that posse once, but his only interaction with firearms during Britt's youth was when they went target shooting and later deer hunting with rifles. Personally, Britt preferred an M1911 semi-automatic or, on occasion, the Thompson kept in the secret compartment in the trunk of Black Beauty. Same basic caliber, but much higher firepower.

He smiled as he turned the page and continued.

~LR~

 **9:45 PM:** I was in the general store late this afternoon picking up the supplies when I heard gunfire a little way down the street. I ran to the front door and peeked out (Uncle J. says never run blindly into a situation if you can avoid it) while the shopkeeper was slamming the inside shutters. He told me "In or out" when he got to the door, so I stepped out just after I saw four men gallop by on their horses, heading out of town to the northwest. One of them was a big burly man with a broad Mexican-style sombrero. He was wearing a bandana as a mask over the lower part of his face but his eyes seemed to light up when he saw me in that doorway and his head swiveled around toward me as if he recognized me. I wasn't sure but I could have sworn I recognized him, too. I didn't believe it was possible at the time.

I ran up the street to find the town marshal organizing a posse to chase the four, who had just robbed the bank. I tried to give the marshal their description, but he told me not to bother since it was the Cardoza Gang that had pulled the heist.

For someone who tries to be so measured in my endeavors at school, I must have looked like a wreck since the marshal asked me if something was wrong.

I told him, "The Cardoza Gang? Sir, that can't be, at least not the same old Cardoza Gang. I know for a fact that Juan Pedro Cardoza was sent to prison three summers ago."

I didn't bother adding that his gang had captured me while I was trying to keep them away from the badly wounded Ranger Barnett, but with some help from Uncle J. and T., I was able to turn the tables on him while they captured the rest of the gang.

~LR~

Britt laughed at the thought of his father capturing a real, live, wild west bad guy. This was the start of a novel! It had to be! He'd always known of his dad's excellent writing ability, but he'd never known that his father also had a penchant for fiction, especially placing himself into the work as the hero. Controlling his laughter, he continued.

~LR~

The marshal, a man named Frances, shook his head and told me, "New and different Cardoza gang but the same old nasty Juan Pedro Cardoza. He escaped from the state prison in Huntsville three months ago and has put together a new gang. This is at least the fourth bank they've robbed crossing Texas as they've made their way north."

So many bad memories flooded my mind of how that man had almost killed me after his henchmen had captured me leading them away from Ranger Barnett. The nightmares of the torture I endured at his hand still wake me from time to time.

Marshal Frances didn't have time to deal with a daydreaming college kid as I tried to put thoughts of my encounter with Cardoza out of my mind, so he told me there were some recently received Wanted posters on the wall at the jail. I went over to look. The guy in the poster was definitely the same Cardoza, and I'm pretty sure that was him wearing the sombrero and looking at me. I took one of the copies with me to show Uncle J. The posse thundered out of town after the robbers, but most of them came back around dark, saying they'd lost the trail...

**Faded, folded paper, tucked in the pages of the book:**

WANTED!

DEAD OR ALIVE!

JUAN PEDRO CARDOZA

Leader of the infamous Cardoza Gang

for bank robbery, prison break, and other crimes.

Armed and Dangerous!

$2,500 REWARD!

~LR~

The image on the paper was faded like the print, but it did look surprisingly authentic. Britt began to wonder if perhaps he was missing something.

~LR~

**Wednesday, 12 June 1878:**

The first day back with Uncle J. and T. is always so exciting and this was no exception. I met them at noon as planned and told them about the bank robbery yesterday. Somehow, T. had already found out about it and I was even more surprised when Uncle J. said they'd been tracking the new Cardoza gang for over two weeks. He was worried that he was going to have to send word to me of a change in plans and then meet me elsewhere, but then the bandits headed this way.

~LR~

Britt's interest intensified. So was this what his father had meant about that posse? He continued reading.

~LR~

After our initial greetings and discussions, Uncle J. became more serious.

He said, "Dan, Tonto and I chase down and capture criminals because it's what we've devoted our lives to doing. We put our lives on the line every time we go after outlaws and bring them in for justice so someday the 'wild west' will be tamed and suitable for people to walk down the street without the fear of being shot down in their tracks."

It's always hard to tell what he's thinking behind that mask, with only his eyes to give away his feelings, but I could tell that something was bothering him as he paused for a moment before continuing.

"I know that it was quite a scare the last time you met Cardoza. The man was threatening you, he and his men beat you really badly, and they could have killed you at any time if you'd told them Ranger Barnett's location or if he'd just decided to forget about him. It would be natural for you to have bad memories of that event, or even nightmares, but that's not the end of it."

Grandma Frisby taught me not to lie and Uncle J. and T. reinforced that over the years, but this was one time when, once I realized where the discussion was going, I lied through my teeth. "Uncle John, it's okay. I haven't had anything like that and I understand the danger now. I'm here to help."

He shook his head slowly and replied, "Dan, we love having you here to visit with us and to help us; you've faced danger with us a number of times before, but this is different. Cardoza may have it in for you since you captured him last time, and he may not hesitate to kill you immediately if he gets the chance. I—"

He paused, as if choked up, but covering it well just as the mask conceals his identity and his emotions. It took him a moment before he continued, saying, "I want to send you somewhere safe and meet you afterward. I don't want to put you in such danger, or to put the responsibility for your safety on Tonto's head, and I don't know if I could live with myself if I let something happen to you."

I stepped forward and clasped his hand as I replied, "Uncle J., I'm old enough now to make my own decision on this. I choose to help and I'm going to. If you waste time trying to send me away, I'll just come back. I told you I'm here to help. I'm going to help."

He pulled me in tight and gave me a hug. There was a whispered, "I'm proud of you, Dan, and I love you."

I couldn't see them but I know he had tears in his eyes since I had them in mine.

~LR~

Britt Reid was confused as he read the page. This wasn't like his father, the mild mannered man who only became a lion in the publisher's office or at the editor's desk. This man about whom he was reading was much more like himself than his father...except for the tears. He turned the page...

~LR~

**Friday, 14 June 1878:**

It's been a hard two and a half days of riding. We stopped late last night and I fell asleep right after a quick dinner. We were up before dawn and back on the trail this morning. Since we never located their tracks, we can only hope we're on the right trail. Both Uncle J. and T. can track anything better than any two men in the West, but when Tonto says there's nothing to track like now, there's generally nothing that can be done. However, Uncle J. often seems to be able to predict their basic plan even before they actually do it which seems to give him a pretty good idea of their ultimate destination.

That's the thing about Uncle J.: he catches criminals. At Harvard College, the professors tell us we should always say "the accused" until the person is found guilty. While that's true, many of the people that Uncle J. chases and catches are escaped criminals like Juan Pedro Cardoza who've already been convicted. In addition, of those he's caught following current crimes, I think they've always been convicted, so he knows a lot about the criminal mind, what they want, and how they think. The only time I've ever seen Uncle J. get a little bit mad at T. was when he was talking about this very thing.

T. told Uncle J. that "he would make the best criminal in the West if he ever decided to become one" (that's my translation of my recollection of what T. said. His English has continued to improve over the years, but he's still not that good!). Uncle J. told him that wasn't funny and that there were no 'best criminals'. My laughter probably didn't help matters.

Uncle J. just told me I better get to sleep. He said we have another hard day ahead tomorrow and then decisions to make. I'm not sure what he means.

**Saturday, 15 June 1878:**

I remember that first summer following Grandma Frisby's death when I joined Uncle J. in the West for the first time. I had just turned 14 years old and barely knew him. He'd sent me to a boarding school in Connecticut for some education the previous fall after she'd told him who I was and he'd revealed himself to her as my late father's younger brother. Grandma told me that I could trust him, that he would take care of me, and then the only mother I'd ever known died. She told me this and then he sent me away. That hurt so much and I thought I, a 13 year old kid, was being abandoned forever. I really never expected to see or even hear from him again, but, to my surprise, he stayed in touch with regular letters, telegrams, and even occasional gifts. By mid-winter, he was already making arrangements for my first visit during the summer break.

While I'd grown up on Grandma's farm and had spent most of a year at the boarding school (which went a lot better than I could have ever envisioned), I thought I knew a lot, but it turned out that I was greener than grass as she would say. Uncle J. and T. welcomed me and then spent most of two months teaching me everything from trailcraft to camp lore to wrestling and some really basic fighting techniques. They taught me how to really ride a horse and to rope, but most importantly, to think. When it was time to go back East after about two months together, Uncle J. gave me a little book in which he must have spent hours (days?) writing extra lessons and assignments for that school year. I remember some of them to this day, but the most memorable ones were while sitting around the campfire that first summer.

Uncle J. would take the most common sights and turn them into great lessons that I hope I'll be able to share with my kids someday, if I'm ever blessed with any. One of the first (and most memorable) was the fly and the cracker tin.

"Dan," he said, "you've swatted at that fly four times in the last two minutes. Take this cracker tin and catch it without hurting it."

He handed me the empty tin and gave me an expectant look as if it should be the easiest thing in the world.

T. was nodding as he did it, and I thought I heard him say, "Right good lesson, Kemosabe."

Trying to even see that fly in the dim light of the campfire, I thought they were both crazy. Still, I got up and gave it a "right good" try, chasing that fly (or one of his countless relatives) around for several minutes.

"Time!" said Uncle J., as he sometimes did when I was trying various tasks. When he looked in the tin, of course it was empty, since I hadn't even remembered to put the top on it. He handed it to T. and said, "Tonto, can you demonstrate another method?"

T. reached into the supplies, pulled out something I couldn't see, and then stuck his hand down in the tin. He set the tin down over to the side, and didn't even get up. Uncle J. called "Time!" a couple of minutes later and T. put the top on the tin.

Close to the fire so we could see, Uncle J. let me watch as he pulled the top off. Down in the bottom were three flies, which promptly flew away.

"Dan, when dealing with flies, it's easier to catch them when you smear a little honey in the trap than it is to chase them all over the countryside. We often find that criminals are a bit like flies. End of lesson."

He never spent another moment explaining that lesson, but I've thought a lot about the sense it made over the years, particularly after watching him in action that summer.

Tonight, while studying his map next to the campfire, he pointed to Jeffersonville, a little town about 30 miles to the northwest and said, "This looks like a good spot to spread a little honey."

~LR~

**Sunday, 16 June, through Tuesday, 18 June 1878:**

The past three days have been so hectic that I haven't had time to write until now and I'm so tired I can't remember much less record it all at the moment. We got up early on Sunday the 16th and rode hard for the little town of Jeffersonville, Texas. I think it was about 40 or 45 miles by trail versus the 30 miles or so on Uncle J.'s map. Victor was about spent (thank goodness for Uncle J. sending me that conditioning regimen for him a couple of months back; without it he wouldn't have made it, even as strong as he is!), while Silver and Scout looked like they could have gone that much further. We got there just before the morning service was over and Uncle J. entered town in disguise to go talk to the sheriff and the bank president when they came out of the church building. Tonto set up camp outside of town while I went to the telegraph office to send a message to our old friend Ranger Roy Barnett.

Oh, I can't keep my eyes open. I'm going to leave a space and try to record the rest of this tomorrow night.

~LR~

The rest of that page and the next two pages were blank, but there were several things tucked into the fold. Britt pulled out the first one.

~LR~

**Body of an untitled newspaper clipping with a handwritten note: "from the Jeffersonville Chronicle, June 19":**

There was great excitement in the fair city of Jeffersonville, Texas, on Tuesday as the notorious Cardoza Gang came to town with evil intent. Led by a convict recently escaped from the Texas State Penitentiary in Huntsville, the infamous Juan Pedro Cardoza, the newly reconstituted outlaw gang thought to rob the Bank of Jeffersonville soon after the arrival of a major gold shipment said to be for financing construction of the railroad spur from Corbin. What Señor Cardoza and the members of his gang didn't know was that word of the gold shipment, which appeared in the announcements in this paper on Monday, was fake, being spread by Jeffersonville sheriff Robert "Hondo" Tanner at the behest of an unidentified but "great friend of law enforcement."

With the Cardoza Gang having already robbed four banks in cities across Texas and known to be in the area and headed toward our good city, Mrs. Willard Purdom, owner and president of the Bank of Jeffersonville following the recent passing of her husband, the bank founder, agreed to the plan to offer what seemed to be easy pickings to the gang in return for enhanced security and the chance of permanently putting the gang members behind bars.

The bank shut down at noon on Tuesday and the purported gold shipment arrived at the bank by wagon just minutes later. It was quickly taken inside by a somewhat elderly driver, his assistant on shotgun, another man identified as an Indian, and a young hireling. It was not immediately apparent if anyone noticed when only the driver left the bank and drove the wagon away. The bank reopened a short time later.

The five members of the Cardoza Gang reined their horses to a stop just outside the bank at about 2 PM during the sweltering heat of the day. They rushed inside, pulling their revolvers as they did so, to commit their foul deed; however, they were surprised on entering to find Mrs. Purdom and several armed men, including a masked man, waiting for them. The masked man, who Mrs. Purdom identified as the elderly wagon driver, had reentered the bank disguised as a customer before switching into his regular clothing.

On seeing the armed robbers, Mrs. Purdom screamed and dropped behind the bank teller's counter as the masked man fired two shots, amazingly knocking the guns out of two robbers' hands. Disarmed, injured, and unable to even pick up their weapons, they both surrendered immediately. Texas Ranger Roy Barnett, who had arrived in town just hours earlier and who had been on shotgun in the wagon, and the unidentified Indian fought with two of the other robbers while the supposedly fearless leader, Señor Cardoza, turned to flee, only to be tripped by the young hireling. Cardoza dropped his gun in the process.

Mrs. Purdom, who said that she was now looking over the counter, reported that Cardoza jumped back to his feet and was charging the young man to tackle him when the lithe fellow sidestepped the Mexican toro's charge and got a couple of good punches in on him. The much larger Cardoza seemed to recognize his thin opponent and roared in anger as he turned and charged again.

~LR~

The words in the journal were almost surreal, as if from a dime novel, but the published description of the fight took him aback. Dan Reid, Jr., Britt's father, had really been involved in a fight with a criminal? This wasn't just the plot for a book his dad had been writing while on vacation with his uncle? Britt remembered any number of fights during his former nights out with Kato that could have been described somewhat similarly, but that his father was involved in such a manner was more of a surprise with each passing line. The article continued.

~LR~

"The outlaw chief was very upset at the young man for some reason," reported Mrs. Purdom, "but the young fellow stood his ground and punched back when Cardoza swung at him." Mrs. Purdom also said that Cardoza must have been trying to trick the youngster, since he turned and dived for his gun when he was close enough to it. However, as he was bringing it around, the young man was able to pull his own pistol and aim it right at him, telling him to stop. "He told him 'I don't want to shoot you, but I'm not afraid to do it if you keep moving,'" claimed Mrs. Purdom. "Señor Cardoza hesitated for a second and then started laughing as he must have realized the young man was deadly serious." Cardoza surrendered to the young man and Sheriff Tanner arrived a few moments later with seven armed townsmen to haul the whole gang off to the Jeffersonville jail where they are being kept while awaiting trial.

When asked the identity of the men who assisted with the capture, Ranger Barnett said, "Three of a lawman's best friends." Ranger Barnett refused to elaborate, and neither Sheriff Tanner nor Mrs. Purdom would comment further about them. The Chronicle will bring word on the attempted robbery or those who foiled it to the good citizens of Jeffersonville as more information becomes available.

~LR~

**Barely legible hand-written letter dated June 24, 1878:**

_Dan,_

_Greetings. Thank you again for the alert that allowed me to get to Jeffersonville in time to be in on the capture. The look on Cardoza's face when he saw both of us was well worth the saddle sores from that long hard ride getting there. I still have to swap out a couple of horses to get my Johnny-boy back._

_We had the trial in Corbin today for the bank robbery here after they've already been convicted of the attempted robbery in Jeffersonville. All of the members of the Cardoza gang, including the ever blustery Juan Pedro himself, were found guilty as sin and sentenced to 15 to 20 years in the state pen. We're taking them to stand trial for the other three robberies in turn before hauling them down to Huntsville. Once he's there, with the added time for the robberies and the escape, Cardoza won't even think of getting out again until he's around 100 years old. Of course, if that poor man he shot in the second robbery has died, Cardoza could get the rope right there instead of the return trip to the pen._

_Enclosed is a copy of the article from the Jeffersonville Chronicle's edition of the 19th that I clipped for you since I thought you might find it interesting._

_Forever in your debt,_

_Roy Barnett,  
Texas Ranger_

~LR~

**The journal, entry following the blank pages, entitled Tuesday, June 18, continued:**

Note: I'm writing this a couple of days later and still hope to fill in the rest of the story soon, but Uncle J. has us on the run looking for a couple of highwaymen who've been robbing travelers in the area.

18th: I've spent so much time over the past few years reliving that awful experience with Juan Pedro Cardoza that I was surprised at how calm I was after I got through the initial fear. I'm really glad I didn't have to shoot him, but I'm pretty sure I would have done it if he'd made me. Fortunately, I didn't have to find out.

With Cardoza and his men in jail, we got ready to leave Jeffersonville since Uncle J. never likes to deal with the inevitable thanks that come his way. He likes nothing better than to slip away as discreetly as he came on the scene, but this time I almost laughed as we ran into Ranger Barnett, Sheriff Tanner, and Mrs. Purdom from the bank coming back with the local prosecutor to see the prisoners since she could identify them and would be the best witness against them. After all, she'd spent most of the fight peeking over the counter watching it. Uncle J. and T. sidestepped and went on by them but Mrs. Purdom caught my arm and thanked me profusely. I told her she was welcome but "It's just what we do to try to help make the West safer for everyone."

Cardoza, in his cell, must have overheard me say this because he came to the bars and started bellowing as he is wont to do. I would think the man must not like me very much since this is the second time I've put him in jail, but he seems to at least have some respect for me. He started talking about me having the heart of a mountain lion. I almost laughed since he said I fought like one last time; maybe I've moved up a bit in his eyes?

I, too, slipped on by then and was heading through the door when Mrs. Purdom exclaimed that she hadn't gotten to thank the masked man and the Indian and that she didn't even know their names.

I was untying Victor and getting ready to ride after T. & Uncle J., but before the door swung closed, I heard Ranger Barnett tell her, "Ma'am, they're just like the kid. They don't ask for rewards or even thanks; they give freely to those in need. They're Tonto and the Lone Ranger!"

~LR~

**Saturday, 10/6, 11:42 AM:**

Over the initial shock that the story was apparently real, Britt Reid was smiling as he glanced at his wristwatch and slowly closed the book. There were many more pages that he looked forward to reading later.

As he picked up the box of papers with the book on top and walked down the steps out of the attic, he thought back to shortly before his father's passing when he revealed his own late-night activities as the crime fighting vigilante Green Hornet to his dad.

His father had been very upset at first, but then calmed and told Britt that he actually understood in a way since he had once ridden with a "vigilante ancestor" in the old west. Britt had always taken that to mean in a posse, but now he knew at least a bit of the truth. Dan Reid, Jr., never told his son any more about his experiences in the west and had passed away a short time later.

_Why, Dad, why didn't you tell me more? Why didn't you share this with me?_

Looking down at the paper stuffed book, Britt suddenly understood that Dan Reid had shared it with him, but in his own way, in his own time. His father could have tossed that box and that book at any time in the almost sixty years before his passing but he hadn't. Hidden as it was, Britt knew that his dad had left it there for him to find someday.

Locking the front door for the last time, Britt went down the steps toward his car. He also realized, in a way, that his father had most likely long kept the secret of his youthful crime fighting activities to avoid encouraging Britt to do even more with the secret identity of his own.

~LR~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up Notes:
> 
> Thanks so much for reading my story. Your comments or reviews will be greatly appreciated, too, as I consider continuing the Lone Ranger's adventures in this story.
> 
> Lone Ranger fans and those knowledgeable of radio shows from the 1930s & 40s may have recognized Dan Reid's son Britt from his own adventures as the late-night vigilante crimefighter the Green Hornet right from the start of the story, but I hope that the additional snippets added at Scroll Keeper's suggestion prior to the challenge deadline have helped those who didn't (thanks, Scroll Keeper!). The timeline and references used here are based on the original "The Lone Ranger" and "The Green Hornet" radio shows and the 1949-1957 "The Lone Ranger" TV show starring Clayton Moore and Jay Silverheels (and, yes, John Hart for one season), with Chuck Courtney portraying Dan Reid in 14 episodes over Seasons 1 through 4.
> 
> Nestor Paiva portrayed Juan Pedro Cardoza and John Stephenson played Texas Ranger Roy Barnett in the Lone Ranger Season 4:11 episode entitled "Dan Reid's Fight for Life."
> 
> Britt's portion of this story takes place in 1951 when Britt would have been in his early to mid 50s with his own late-night crime fighting days largely behind him. Due to the timeline and the original radio adventures, I prefer to think of the 1966-67 TV show "The Green Hornet" as profiling the adventures of Britt, Jr., and Kato, Jr. The disclaimer in the author's note in the beginning also applies to the Green Hornet.
> 
> Finally, for those completely unfamiliar with the Green Hornet, I leave you with this short note from Wikipedia as a fandom blind primer: Though various incarnations sometimes change details, in most versions the Green Hornet is the alter ego of Britt Reid, wealthy young publisher of the Daily Sentinel newspaper by day. But by night Reid dons the long green overcoat, green fedora hat and green mask of the mysterious "Green Hornet" to fight crime as a vigilante. Reid is accompanied by his loyal and similarly masked partner and confidant, Kato, who drives their technologically advanced car, the "Black Beauty". Though both the police and the general public believe the Hornet to be a criminal, Reid uses that perception to help him infiltrate the underworld, leaving behind for the police the criminals and any incriminating evidence he has found.


	2. Another Time, Another Place

**Saturday, 10/6, 10:25 PM:**

With Diana spending the night with a friend and Britt, Jr., on a camping trip with his Scout troop, Casey Reid sat at the head of her bed with a blanket tucked around her, the little glass of wine on her nightstand barely touched.

The object of her interest was James Jones' novel, _From Here to Eternity_. Several of her girlfriends had read it in the months since its debut with very mixed reviews so she was now taking her turn. She had several pillows behind and around her as she read while waiting for her husband to come upstairs.

When he entered a few minutes later, she looked up to see that he had a strange-looking bundle in his hands.

"What's that, dear?" she asked as she tucked the marker in her book.

Holding it up so she could see the overstuffed leather book, he said, "Something I found during the attic cleanup this morning. My father's secret past."

Casey looked skeptical. "Yeah, right. Your father loved your mother with every fiber of his being. Please don't tell me he had an affair," she said, thinking of what she'd just been reading in her own book.

"Oh, no, nothing like that," laughed Britt. "This was a long time before they met, 1878 to be precise, and he wrote it down like only Dad would do when going after one of those big journalism prizes. Remember when I told you about him being in the posse when he was in college? Well, this is all about that, but there's a whole lot more to it than he let on. I'm finding out that there was another side to my dad that I never even suspected."

"Tell me," she said, putting her book on the nightstand next to the bed.

Britt gave her a short summary of what he'd read earlier that day and then said, "That's as far as I've gotten."

"Wow! I thought I knew him pretty well, but I would never have guessed that. Are you going to read some more now?"

"Yeah, I was thinking about it."

"Well, hop in and we'll snuggle up and read it together."

Moments later, he opened the book to where he'd left off earlier that day.

~LR~

**26 June, 1878:**

I'm writing this on the 26th, but it really has little to do with today.

Instead, it harkens back to a time long ago and to last week while we were chasing the Cardoza Gang. Last week, I didn't have the time or the energy to record the events of those few days in my journal, and now the blank pages I left for them continue to confound me in both their stark bareness and my inability to fill them. In truth, I hope to someday be able to write down the events of those particular days, but my task today is not to record those now fleeting memories, nor to record the happenings of this day, but rather of that time long ago.

First, however, I do refer back to one particular night last week after I'd bedded down—I don't remember exactly which date, which bodes ill for the chance of someday filling the blank pages—and I was trying to sleep when Uncle J. nudged me awake.

"Dan, you're having the nightmare again."

My eyes must have been like goose eggs as my recently rehashed internal torment was laid bare before me. I'd already committed what I considered to be a cardinal sin just a few days earlier by lying to his face when he asked me if I had bad memories of my first encounter with Juan Pedro Cardoza.

In truth, I had believed myself long past those horrid memories, the sweats, and the nightmares, but realization that JPC was once again free to roam and rob and torment and murder—well, perhaps it was just too much. It had all come flooding back the night of the bank robbery in Corbin, the night before I was scheduled to join Uncle J. and T., when I learned that Cardoza had escaped prison and was up to his old tricks.

I barely slept the night of the robbery, and on each night since, the dreams had seemed to get worse, overcome only by my exhaustion from the hard riding each day as we tried to find them. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that my nightly encounters with dark Morpheus had become visible to Uncle J., and, most likely, T, as well.

When Uncle J. initially asked me about it on our first day back together, he'd wanted to send me away in order to protect me since Cardoza would most likely wish to settle the score if our paths ever crossed again. I'd personally captured him last time after he and his men had tortured and beaten me. Three summers later, the memories of that horrible time suddenly were bearing quite cruelly on me once more.

I didn't like doing it at the time, but that first day I told Uncle J. that I was fine, that I didn't have any such bad memories, and that nothing was bothering me. I think I used the term "lied through my teeth" earlier when I recorded that discussion and I still can't think of a less-horrible sounding or more appropriate description of what I did.

Fortunately, but quite unfortunately in this case for me, my uncle is one of the wisest and most intelligent men around, and I suspect he saw through my attempted deception as if it was crystal clear glass. Still, either that or my threat to keep coming after him convinced him that I wasn't going away and he let me stay rather than sending me off somewhere "safe." Wherever that place was, I would certainly have shared it with the bad memories and the inevitable apprehension for his and T.'s safety as they dealt with JPC and his new gang.

"Dan, this is something with which you have to deal. As much as we'd like, Tonto and I can't do it for you. Therefore, when this is over, we'll talk about it again, but for now, understand that we're going to do everything we can to bring Cardoza and his gang to justice and everything we can to help you."

Our little one-sided 'talk' (honestly, I don't remember saying a word that night, though I think I did nod like one of those bobbing toys on display in store windows in Boston) must have helped at least a little since I went back to sleep. My subsequent recapture of the bandito chief with little more than some relatively minor aches, pains, cuts, and bruises has allowed me to further limit the dreams, though I've been wondering if Uncle J. actually engineered Cardoza's capture in that manner to do just that. I really wouldn't put it past him to do something like that to help me even if it put him at greater risk to do it. My only consolation is that, after reconsidering it probably a hundred times, I still can't figure out how he could possibly have arranged it.

Last night, the 25th, Uncle J. came to me while I was brushing Victor and we finally had that "talk" he had promised.

Thus, here I sit.

Sentenced to a "recuperative" day in camp, Uncle J. said my assignment is to write out those memories and my feelings about them, to record them on paper. I'm not exactly sure why, but my knowledge of my uncle and my gleanings from logic class tell me that there is a reason as yet to be revealed to his instruction. Therefore, I sit here on this fallen log with Victor looking on expectantly and I search my memories for the starting point. And I write.

~LR~

_There are a number of words struck through with one to a few blots per line, and several ink blots where the tip of Dan's fountain pen may have rested. The gap on the page widens to the top of the next page before the writing resumes, though part of the blank space is filled with a fairly decent drawing of a horse's head and neck._

~LR~

**Saturday, 10/6, 10:42 PM:**

"I can't believe this was your dad," said Casey as she sat up straight. Reaching for the wine, she took a sip and then handed it to Britt who took and equally small drink. "He was always so self assured when dealing with those shysters at city hall or with calling out some of the mobsters who used to run this town. His way was so different than what you and Kato ended up having to do to put some of the new breed behind bars. Seeing him so young and doubting himself is really strange to me. It makes me sad in a way, but I'm glad I got to see the way he turned out."

"Me, too," agreed Britt. "He was always so self-assured around Mom and me, and was in complete control at the Sentinel. I knew—well, I thought—Dad participated in a posse to chase down an outlaw, but to find out that it was so much more than that and learn about specifics of what he was thinking is, well, 'strange' is right, but pretty amazing, too. And that it was more than once with this Cardoza guy. Wow. I would never have believed it."

"Me either," she said. "And I had no idea he could draw. I really like his picture of his horse."

Britt laughed. "You and your love for horses," he said, shaking his head as he pulled her closer to him. Leaning in for a kiss, he soon put the marker in the book and set it and the glass of wine over to the side.

~LR~

_Some time later, they picked the book back up and started reading again:_

Or not.

The position of the sun tells me that over an hour has passed since I wrote the last paragraph, but no words flow from my mind, only spots of ink on the page and the start of a drawing of Victor since he kept nudging me as if wanting to go for a ride. Unfortunately, I'm at a loss for what Uncle J. wants me to say.

_More ink spots and a sketch of a flying eagle, or perhaps a crow or a buzzard, filled a few inches of the page before the writing continued._

Victor became insistent on that ride, so we left thoughts of JPC behind and took a little gallop. We had lunch in the shade by a quiet stream, and he seemed to appreciate the apple. I didn't have the heart to tell him it was the last one until we go to the next town for supplies.

Now, he's giving me the "Not again" look as I sit back down on the log where I spent most of the morning.

_Most of the rest of the page was filled with a sketch of a thin but faceless young man in a plaid shirt riding what might have been a white horse. They appeared to be galloping through woods, but this time the sketch was even less complete than those before. However, there were a few more lines at the very bottom._

Then again, maybe it's not what Uncle J. wants me to say is the very point of the exercise. The assignment isn't to say what he wants to hear but, rather, to record my own thoughts and feelings in whatever way I choose. I initially thought of this as one of Professor Hawthorne's writing assignments from last year when he would give us the topic and tell us to write. He always graded the stories against each other and each of us was disappointed that the originality of our own works wasn't really considered in its own right. Maybe originality is what Uncle J. wants.

Perhaps I should just start at the beginning.

~LR~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading my Lone Ranger tale. Your reviews, comments, favorites, and follows are greatly appreciated and encourage me to continue the tale with future chapter episodes or arcs. Thanks!


	3. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** This chapter was written for The Room Forum's 2017 Memoir Madness event, in which it won 2nd place.
> 
> For those who are unfamiliar with the Lone Ranger fandom, there is a brief primer in the Author's Note at the beginning of Chapter 1. The disclaimer is the same as before.

Perhaps I should just start at the beginning.

**My early childhood:**

I don't remember my mother; she died when I was about a year old and Grandma Frisby took me in as her own child. I never knew whether I'd even met my father until years later when Uncle J. told me my parents' story.

My parents had journeyed from Texas back to Missouri to see my mother's parents when my grandparents had gotten ill. Uncle J. said it was a long and dangerous journey at the time, but my mother had insisted since she was an only child. The letter informing my parents of their illness had taken quite some time to arrive and my grandmother had already passed away by the time my mother and father arrived. They had discovered my budding presence somewhere along their journey, and as my mother's belly grew, she became less and less able to travel so they decided to await my birth before returning home to Texas.

Uncle J. said I was about two or three months old when they prepared to set out, but my grandfather became ill once more about that time. Therefore, my mother stayed behind with me to nurse him while my father returned home since he was an officer in the Texas Rangers. According to a letter sent to my father that Uncle J. had read, my grandfather died almost a year later, but rather than waiting for my father to return for her, my mother joined a wagon train heading that way with the intent of seeing my father that much sooner.

We're not sure what happened since the threat of disease was as great as that of bandits or Indian attacks at the time, but my mother and most if not all of the members of that expedition never made it to west Texas. Perhaps Grandma Frisby, who wasn't related to us, was the only person who knew, but I don't know if she ever told anyone. Regardless, she found me and took me in as if I were her own grandson.

To me, she was my mother and grandmother, my only relative, until the day she died.

~LR~

**About seven years ago:**

She lay dying and there was nothing I could do. She'd taught me so much, probably more than I learned in the one room schoolhouse I attended in town, but I knew of no way to save her. I was crying as I held her hand telling her it would be okay.

That's when the stranger with the mask arrived.

He had a powerful presence and wore a uniform that really wasn't. His white hat matched the color of his great horse and the stocks on his matching pistols. The black mask was in stark contrast to the white, and the silver studs on his holsters matched the cartridges with silver bullets in the loops on his belt.

He had the look of the hero that I needed to save my grandmother. Unfortunately, I realized later that there was nothing that he or anyone else could have done. He did his best to make her comfortable while his friend, T., cared for me.

The discussion went on for quite some time as he tried to comfort her. He'd reached in his wallet and pulled out a paper that he showed her after she had shown him the locket she always wore around her neck. I thought that rather strange, but what happened next was stranger still. The man reached behind his head and untied his mask, removing it where she could see his face. She reached up and touched the line where his tanned skin met the white skin hidden under the mask. She nodded to him and then called me over to them.

With a labored voice, she said, "Dan, my grandson, I'm so sorry I never told you the whole truth. I found you as a child. There is a paper in my Bible that tells it all, but this man is your uncle. He will take care of you from now on. My locket has a tintype picture of you as a baby with your parents." She held up a paper that the masked man had given her. It was a larger but matching tintype. "Trust him...my grandson. I have always...loved you...as if...you really are...my own. Now he...will do...the same."

We buried Grandma Frisby that afternoon.

~LR~

**The first year:**

In a way, trust is like money: so difficult to earn but so easy to squander. The masked man who claimed to be my uncle, J., spent several days with me before telling me that he had arranged to send me to a boarding school in Connecticut. What little trust he'd built up with me vanished in that moment.

I came so close to running away, but then I realized that my situation would be just as bad if not worse. When he showed me the telegram that said I'd been accepted into the school and that my fees were paid for the year, I decided to give it a try. A couple of days later, he put me on a train with real money in my pocket—more than I'd ever seen—and he said that I would be receiving a monthly allowance for my expenses. Quite honestly, I never expected to see or hear from him again, and figured the promise of the money was just a way of getting me on the train. I expected to never see another cent.

Headmaster Meadors greeted me when I arrived at the school and his assistant helped me settle in, but I didn't believe any of it. When I started classes the next day, I was told that I would be doing remedial work until I caught up with those my age. I would have a tutor for each class to assist with this. The reality set in around 4 PM that day after class when I met my first tutor. There were more tutors before and after dinner and I was nearly exhausted when bedtime finally came. The next day was a repeat of the first.

It was my third day at the school when Uncle J.'s first letter arrived. In it, he outlined what he said I should be experiencing almost exactly as had been happening, and he provided some additional assignments that he said would help me. Tired, grumpy, and feeling generally overwhelmed, I almost balled that letter up to throw in the stove in the dorm room but then I read the next to last paragraph, which I eventually memorized from reading it so many times:

_Dan, I will remain in touch with you regularly during the school year and hope you will do the same with me using the address I gave you. If you keep up with your schoolwork and the lessons I send you, you will be allowed, if you choose to do so, to join T. and me next summer for a few weeks between school sessions. We really hope to see you then._

A second letter arrived a week later, and, indeed, they came quite regularly after that. My letters were soon heading back his way, though not with the same frequency.

That June, I rode the train as far as I could and then took a stagecoach to a little town in west Texas. When I got off, just as I had feared, Uncle J. wasn't there to meet me. I started griping and a kindly old miner approached and asked if he could help me.

"No, no one can help me. The person who was supposed to meet me here hasn't and he's probably laughing halfway across the Arizona Territory by now. I knew it was too good to be true."

"Well, sonny, did this here feller ever give you any reason to doubt him?" asked the miner.

I nodded.

"Well, what'd he do?"

"He was too good to be true," I said. "He promised too much and I knew he couldn't come through on everything."

I sat down on the bench with a huff, but I heard something fall when I did.

"I think ya' dropped something there, sonny," said the old man. "It's right there behind yer foot."

Having no idea what had dropped, one can imagine my surprise when I found the silver bullet that had rolled under the bench. I looked up at the old miner in utter surprise only to see, behind the makeup, my uncle's smile and I knew that I could trust him completely.

~LR~

**The second summer:**

After my experiences of the first summer, I was ready and knew what to expect when I arrived to spend my second summer with Uncle J. and T. I wasn't concerned about one of them meeting me; if they didn't, I understood that there would be a reason and I knew the backup plan.

I was no longer a complete tenderfoot, either. I wore my hat and well-broken-in boots, and a knife, flint, and compass were in my pockets. My luggage that year consisted of my saddlebags and a properly packed bedroll; I planned to purchase a new canteen and rope for a lasso on arrival. The bags contained only what I needed, which was considerably different than the first summer.

That year, Uncle J. had sent me a list that I'd taken to the store in Hartford where I'd picked up what he suggested plus a few additional items I thought might be useful, all of which I packed in a pair of nice, new, matching carpetbags. With them, I would travel in style. Unfortunately, such bags aren't really made for travel by horseback, so they were ultimately traded for a set of leather saddlebags, and the usable excess items that didn't fit in my new rig were donated to a local church for the needy.

On getting off the stagecoach with my saddlebags and bedroll in hand, I saw T. standing under the covered walkway a short distance away. He nodded to let me know it was safe so I approached and we greeted each other like long lost brothers.

"You grow much, Dan," he said. "Get bigger and stronger."

I thanked him, but secretly felt it hadn't been nearly as much as I'd hoped.

"You need supplies? Get them and then we meet friend in livery stable."

Uncle J. had arranged a horse for me that first summer, so I knew this was part of the routine. When we entered the livery a few minutes later, T. walked straight through and stepped out the door at the rear where we met my uncle. Silver and Scout were with him along with another white horse.

"Wow! Kemosabe," I said, using T.'s title for Uncle J. to avoid using his name, "this horse could almost be Silver's twin!"

He smiled below his mask as he said, "Or his son. Dan, he's your mount and his name is Victor, but you can change that if you'd like."

"No, it's perfect!" I exclaimed, so excited to be trusted with such a great animal for the summer. "He's perfect!" I was petting him and rubbing him as if he was the most precious thing on Earth.

As we rode a little later, Uncle J. told me about how he and T. had helped a rancher a few counties over several years before and had become friends. As a result of their relationship, he'd let Silver breed a couple of the rancher's mares several times over the years with the understanding that he and T. would have first option on any offspring when they needed them. Victor was the first they'd ever needed.

As the summer progressed, Victor and I became great friends, and at the end of the summer, I dreaded leaving him behind. Uncle J. overheard me telling Victor this a few days before I was scheduled to go.

"Dan, I think you may have misunderstood. Victor is your horse, and not just for the summer. When you go back to school, he's going with you. You'll have to take care of him through the school year, and he'll come back with you next summer if you want to come out again."

I was the happiest kid in the world, having my own horse and the invitation to join them again for another summer. When we got back to school that fall and they saw him, I became the envy of many of my classmates, too. It was something of a hike to the livery stable where I arranged for him to be boarded but his excitement when I visited and the looks on my classmates' faces when I rode him around campus and beyond made every second of every trip worth it.

~LR~

**Summer, three years ago:**

I had been attempting to follow a trail that T. had laid out as a training course. I was slowly getting better with my tracking skills but on that day I proved that I still had much room for improvement. I'd finally given up and was making my way toward camp when I heard the rifle shot. I don't remember but there may have been a second in quick succession.

Topping a rise, I saw two men in the distance and a man lying on the ground in the little valley between us. Riding Victor, I must have appeared as large and foreboding as they seemed to me; they saw us and quickly mounted their own horses and rode away. They probably believed their victim to be dead.

Victor and I got there as quickly as possible, without a thought that they could have been setting a trap for us so they could come back over the rise and start shooting again. Dismounting, I ran to the victim and turned him over. It was then that I saw he wore the badge of a Texas Ranger.

My late father was a Ranger and Uncle J. had only recently joined the Rangers before the ambush on that fateful day about fifteen years earlier, so on finding the man still breathing, I was doubly motivated to save him as well as it being the right thing to do.

Quickly binding his wound as best as I could, I helped him escape from the area and then set him up in what I thought was a safe place. I also gave him what I sincerely hoped was better medical assistance than my initial effort. Unfortunately, the mounted assassins weren't done. I spotted them returning down the trail a little while later so I had to lead them away from the wounded Ranger like a mother bird flitting away from her nest on the ground as a predator approaches.

There's something to be said for knowing an area. While this was my first visit to the area, they'd probably been there much longer but I was still quite surprised when I rounded a bend to find that they'd used some path unknown to me to cut us off. With their guns trained on us from only a few feet away, I had to surrender.

We arrived at their hideout a short time later, and I did the only thing I could do: I told Victor to run. The two bandits were as surprised as I'd been a short time earlier, so Victor escaped. I hoped he'd be off to at least find Silver, his father, if not Uncle J. and T. themselves.

Furious is the best word I can find at this time to describe their resulting mood. I remember being punched—I don't have any idea how many times—before I lost consciousness.

When I awoke, I was in what I initially thought was a cave, but it turned out to be an old mine. The bellowing voice that seemed to reverberate in that confined space was my first encounter with Juan Pedro Cardoza.

~LR~

**In the mine, 3 years ago:**

The Spanish language is such an important part of the American Southwest that Uncle J. had me begin studying it during my first year of boarding school. This was even as I was still trying to catch up with my classmates on so many other parts of the curriculum that my education in the little school on the frontier had left so badly lacking. Having just completed my third year of instruction, I was almost as fluent in the language as Señor Profesor Martinez y Ribeiro could make me. Therefore, the Spanish-language rant that I heard chilled my soul.

I soon learned that the voice saying the words was that of Juan Pedro Cardoza since he often speaks thus of himself. He was trying to decide whether to kill his henchmen for their bumbling or me for my interference. Unfortunately, I moved and his threats were soon focused solely on me.

My hands were tied when they pulled me up off the ground and I was hurting. When I didn't immediately give the Ranger's location, Cardoza waved a hand as he shook his head and his men hurt me some more. They concentrated on my stomach and torso, causing pain and suffering, but a blow to the head put me down.

That beating was bad enough but it was what happened sometime later when I regained consciousness once more that has haunted me over the years. Cardoza had evidently sent the others outside and it was just the two of us.

"You resist well, chico, but the time has come. You tell me where to find the Ranger, and I won't let los hombres hurt you anymore. What say? Deal, mi amigo? Let Juan Pedro Cardoza take good care of you?"

Uncle J. had told me any number of times that it's often better to say nothing than to start engaging with a captor. I'd never expected to need that advice but there I found myself in the very position about which he had warned me. Therefore, I clenched my jaw and prepared for more blows.

JPC had more surprises in store for me. There were no blows, but what did happen was just as bad. He reached over and picked up the biggest knife I'd ever seen from out of the fire circle. I'm not sure but I suspect it would likely have made Colonel Bowie's famous knife look small, and this one had been sitting with its tip in coals of their little fire. He held the glowing tip in front of my face for a moment before moving it toward himself.

Holding it right in front of his mouth, he spat on the blade and the spittle sizzled briefly before he tilted the knife slightly, letting it slide off toward the ground. "¿Muy caliente, sí? Think what that could do to you. Many, many bad things, chico. You think about the possibilities, amigo, but don't think long."

Suddenly, he slapped the blade against my cheek and I thought to hear my skin sizzle to its touch, but the steel had cooled enough that it was only quite hot against my face. Smiling devilishly through brown teeth, he put the tip of the knife back in the fire pit.

"Boys," he called, "my knife will take a few minutes to get hot again. Talk to our guest one more time to see if we can avoid such unpleasantries. He is a good looking young man and we wouldn't want to give the young ladies a reason to shun him."

The two henchmen came back into that part of the mine past Cardoza who nodded in my direction. He walked out front while they once again demanded answers with their fists.

It was unknown to me at the time but Victor had found Uncle J. and T. and they soon tracked back to where I'd driven him away. They found the mine's emergency tunnel, set a fire to smoke out the bandits, rescued me, and then took on the gang. Fighting on the energy of the moment, I battled Cardoza and won. That night, after they were in jail, my energy was completely spent and I slept for many, many hours.

~LR~

**The weeks that followed:**

Perhaps I didn't realize how close I came to death in that old mine, but I returned to the school in Hartford a couple of weeks later when summer ended and that was when my troubles started. As the distance from T. and Uncle J. to me increased, the memories that their presence may have kept at bay began to bear down on me like the big drivers of the locomotive that sped me along.

Yes, hindsight can be a terrible thing as it was here when my understanding and my imagination finally crossed paths like one of the plotted graphs in my algebra class. No longer was the knowledge that I had defeated Juan Pedro enough when I realized how lucky I had been, first with Victor finding them, followed by Uncle J. and T. finding the old tunnel, them rescuing me, and then all of us capturing the gang. A single difference in how it played out might have been the difference between life and death; Atropos' shears could have as easily cut my life's connection to this celestial orb.

That realization weighed heavily on my heart, and it seemed to get worse with each passing week. My sleep was first to be impacted, with increasingly bad nightmares and sweats preventing me from getting the rest I needed. Lack of sleep made it worse, and I was soon seeing JPC from the corner of my vision. When I would turn, he wouldn't be there, vanishing away like the morning mist on a sunny day. Still, whether visible or not, I felt his presence and I began to question myself and my abilities. My time spent with Victor was my only relief and that was by no means enough.

It was Professor Martinez who called for me to stay after class one day just a few weeks into the term. Speaking rapidly in Spanish, he said, "Señor Reid, something has come over you that is affecting your work in my class, and, from my discussion with your other teachers, theirs as well. I would greatly appreciate an explanation."

"It's nothing, _Señor Profesor_ ," I replied dismissively in Spanish as I fidgeted to go. "I will do better, Señor."

"Wait, Señor Reid. We are not done. You have had your chance to do better, so now you must listen to me. Your work has declined substantially across the board since last term. In my class, you are resorting to second year tactics of translating the words instead of thinking them, living them. I see you questioning the choices of the words you speak as if something is keeping you from being fluid in your thoughts and your speech. The other professors report similar problems in their classes. Please, Señor Reid, tell me, what is bothering you?"

Of course, I couldn't tell the good professor the truth about the issue without exposing Uncle J. and my part in his work, but I couldn't lie to him either. Therefore, I gave him a version that I hoped would mollify him. Becoming more assured with my Spanish as I spoke, I replied, " _Señor Profesor_ , I had something happen to me during the summer break that showed me how fragile life is and how close I came to dying. I thought I was past it all, but since returning to school, I have been reliving those moments over and over again, almost nightly. I cannot seem to get past it, and now I'm jittery and jumpy during the day from lack of sleep during the night."

"Do you want to talk about the details, Señor Reid?"

"No, Professor, I cannot.

He nodded, seemingly knowingly, before responding, "Señor Reid, if you cannot tell me the details, let me tell you this. You are _here. This_ is now. You are _alive_. This means you survived whatever calamity befell you there and then. It may have been close, but you overcame it then, and something tells me you could probably do so again. I suggest you consider that, Señor Reid. Buenos días."

Professor Martinez's dismissal was abrupt, but that little discussion gave me much to think about over the days that followed. My first task was to buckle down on my school work, since another professor might not let me off on the questioning as easily as Professor Martinez. Second, I increased my daily exercise for me and for Victor; he got particularly good workouts on the weekends. When the following summer break rolled around, I was determined not to have to increase our regimens; we would already be there. Finally, I was determined to put Juan Pedro Cardoza out of my mind. That was the hard part.

~LR~

**That school year:**

A great white horse with a scrawny kid was frequently seen galloping for miles on end through the central Connecticut countryside that fall and, when the weather allowed, winter. I ranged as far north as Springfield and as far south, on one occasion, as New Haven. Considering how much trouble I got in over the latter trip when I got back late the next night, I decided to avoid antagonizing Headmaster Meadors any more than necessary for the months that followed.

However, wherever I went, whether walking or riding, Juan Pedro's long shadow always seemed to be trailing along behind me, as if ready to swoop in and entangle me in its dark shroud. It seemed to be worse on our rides since I usually wasn't concentrating on my studies; Victor and I would go for miles as happy as could be but eventually we would come to something that would trigger the memories. That cold, black touch would lock its sad, melancholic grip on me, and the beauty around us would fade, the joy we'd just been experiencing would disappear.

What Señor Cardoza and his specter didn't realize is that if you stretch a fabric enough it slowly loses its shape, and if you keep stretching it enough, it will eventually rip, or like rawhide, snap. Each time the boogeyman would grab me, I was finding that I was getting used to it and it was getting easier to make it lose its grasp on me. Oh, there were times when it seemed to save up for an enormous surge and threaten to completely engulf me, but I would battle back, often with Victor's help, and eventually the darkness would fade.

By spring, these attacks were fewer and farther between and one day while we were riding, I experienced an attack of a totally different sort that seemed to help push old JPC even further into the background.

It was late afternoon on a Saturday in early April and we were making our way through the outskirts of Waterbury toward home when we saw them approaching us around a bend. She was an Arabian, a beautiful animal, jet black, with a flowing mane as she cantered down the road. Her rider was female, too, wearing a red coat over some type of riding habit, but it was unlike those we sometimes passed on our rides. This girl wore black trousers with shiny black boots that came up to her knees, and her golden hair bounced behind her similar to her horse's mane. She appeared to be slight of frame and probably about my age; the smile that hit her face when she saw us was contagious. I couldn't see but I suspect Victor's grin was as big as my own.

She turned down an intersecting road about 30 yards before reaching us and looked over her shoulder, laughing, as if challenging us to catch her. Of course, we immediately took the bait and began the chase.

We kept up for what was probably several miles, closing the gap to within a few feet of them before she would laugh and pull ahead again by about the same amount as if toying with us. Finally, I had to rein Victor in because he had already had a long ride before we encountered them.

She slowed when she saw and then turned back toward us. Stopping about 10 or 15 yards ahead of us, she called out, "You have a beautiful horse. Thank you for such a great ride."

"Yours is beautiful, too," I called but she was already turning away. Too late I realized she wasn't coming back, so I called out, "What is your name? Where can I find you?"

She laughed once more and then smiled over her shoulder as she took another turn and quickly disappeared from our sight.

My imagination was sparked by that young lady and her beautiful horse. I think it was a crush—I really didn't know, since I'd never had one before—but I thought about her frequently and searched for her in the weeks that followed. I think Victor and I rode every road, lane, and path within miles of Waterbury, but search as we did, as hard as we looked, we never saw them again.

Just as I had lost them, I also lost Juan Pedro's shadow, which had finally reached its breaking point. After months of being haunted by him and what he had done to me, I was finally free. No longer did I fear his threats or his hold over me until I encountered him again a little over two years later.

~LR~

**26 June, 1878:**

I've written all afternoon at Uncle J.'s direction for a purpose I really didn't understand, but now that I've written about a number of things that I've never considered and have realized some things, too, I think I finally do.

Now, in hindsight, I realize that I need not let my nemesis get to me; in fact, he does not even deserve that title. He hurt me once, but that is long past. I defeated him then, I have now done it again recently, and, if the need ever arises, I can do it once more. Waking or sleeping, I will never let Juan Pedro Cardoza bother me again.

The sun hangs low on the western horizon in a peaceful sky, and, as I finally stand to go, Victor is grinning at me.

~LR~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Follow-up Note:** Hi, fellow Lone Ranger fans! Thanks so much for reading! If you're enjoying this story and would like to see it continue with more of Dan's adventures from the summer of '78, please let me know with your reviews, comments, follows, or favorites. They are greatly appreciated.
> 
> The main events in the sections entitled "Summer, three years ago" and "In the mine, 3 years ago" were shown in the Season 4:11 episode entitled "Dan Reid's Fight for Life." I've added the details of Dan's torture to the limited beating that he received on screen.
> 
> Thanks also to Legendary Biologist for pointing out in her review that Dan has symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) in the story. I stayed away from applying a name and tried to let Dan's words speak for his conditions since he really didn't know what it was. Although it had been experienced by many soldiers in war and others in various traumatic situations, there wasn't a real term for it until it became known as "combat fatigue," "battle neurosis," or "shell shock" during World War I or "acute stress reaction" in civilians in 1920. The term PTSD wasn't made official in medical practice in the United States until 1980 when the American Psychiatric Association added PTSD to its classification scheme. The effects of PTSD are treatable; if you are experiencing them for whatever cause, please see a healthcare professional and get the help you need.


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